User blog comment:Biggren/The Silvir Conquest/@comment-4677325-20140616035721/@comment-3135907-20140623221949

Near Sirinius's den, a small band of mercenaries work their way northwesterly. Their leader, a rough, burly mink dressed in a kilt and carrying both small roundbuckler and ranseur, calls out threateningly to a small, disheveled-looking subordinate straggling in the rear: "Hurraho, strike me for's'l! Aye, Runty, keep up if ye can- yore naught but a problem fer yore mates, and ye knows rightly what we does wit' problems 'round 'ere, cully. Right, mate?" The scraggly vermin in the rear increases the speed of his desperate shuffling gait. The mink laughs. "Hoho, bless yore cockles, shipmate. Haharr, me cullies, look at 'im run!" No doubt Sirinius can hear the deep bass nautical twang of the mink mercenary captain, closer resembling an otter accent than anything else, as it booms through the surrounding woodland- joined now by the rough hearty chuckling of the mercenary crew as they jog eagerly behind their master.